Sentimental Journey
by Marcy Matters
Summary: A seasonal piece that I just didn't have time to upload until now. So, you can bookmark it for next year, or just read it (please!). I've never before written fan fiction, but felt I had to do something as a thank you for the wonderful pieces I've read on this site. It's all about Harry, my favourite character, and is set post end of Spooks. It's kinda sad, so be warned!
1. Chapter 1

"It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance…." Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Chapter One

If anyone had taken the time to notice, they would have seen a middle-aged man, of average weight and height, making his solitary way along the Embankment. They might have noted his thinning hair, grimly set mouth, and prematurely lined face. They might have observed that his movements were straight-backed, almost stiff, as he walked along, gloved hands curled into fists. They would have seen his breath form small clouds in the cold, dark night. But no one did notice. He had mastered the art of blending in, of disappearing into the background, crowd or not.

Harry often went to the Embankment to collect his thoughts. Despite the early hour, the night was still and empty. He imagined that most people were home with loved ones or celebrating with friends. It was Christmas again – his first since losing Ruth, this time for good. The season had crept up on him this year. The Grid had been busy the past few months, even more than usual it seemed. The first few weeks without her had been almost unbearable, but eventually he'd managed to lose himself in his work – thwarting terrorist plots, immobilizing anti-government movements, suppressing political scandals.

Sometimes he wondered how he'd ever become involved in this mess. There was never any respite. There were always new plots hatching, new conflicts developing, new terrorist groups forming. Even before he'd lost Ruth, he knew that his heart was no longer in it. Perhaps it was the cumulative effect of so many years of betrayal and deceit, hurt and loss. Perhaps too many recent operations had been rooted in service to corporate greed, not Queen and country. Whatever the reason, he knew that his once unwavering dedication to the service had begun to wane. Yet it seemed, to his mind, that there was no way out. So he kept on working.

He thought of his team, still hard at work on the Grid. His connection with them, once so strong, seemed weakened somehow. Erin, his section head, was competent enough, but he often felt as though she were watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake. Unlike his past section leaders, he hadn't chosen her for the job – his superiors had placed her there. She was a bit too ambitious, that one. Harry suspected that her relationship with Dmitri, another of his officers, was just a tool she could use to further her designs on Harry's office.

That morning Erin had asked Harry for time off so that she could spend Christmas with her young daughter. Unfortunately there had been signs of activity from one of the troublesome groups they'd been watching. So Harry had denied her request, and had to put up with her sullen looks in addition to the other mayhem the day had brought. Dmitri, Calum and a couple of the new officers also seemed to be in poor spirits, barely grunting replies when he addressed them. It wasn't shaping up to be a good Christmas for any of them.

Harry paused and rested his arms on a railing. He stared at the lights glimmering on the cool, black surface of the Thames. He'd walked with Ruth in this very place. There were reminders of her wherever he was, wherever he looked. She was everywhere and yet nowhere at the same time. He suddenly felt cold and tired of being alone. He decided to go home, see to his dog, and then return to the Grid to check on the team's progress. He pulled out his mobile and jabbed at it with a gloved finger, calling his driver.

. . .

As he stepped from the car, Harry glanced quickly over his shoulder to ensure that no one had followed. He cautiously walked to his front door and unlocked it. He slowly eased the door open so that he wouldn't be caught off guard by any intruders. Once in the entranceway, he deactivated the security alarm and scanned the area to ensure nothing had been disturbed in his absence. It was a routine that his deservedly paranoid mind had developed over the years.

His dog scurried over, quiet except for the light clicking of her claws on the floor. "Hello, sweet pup", he greeted her, and bent over to give her an affectionate rub. She was utterly hopeless as a guard dog, but perfect for the companionship he so desperately needed. He went to the kitchen to check that she had sufficient food and opened the back door to let her out. The dog soon returned, and Harry slid his arms out of his coat and folded it over the back of a chair. He kicked off his shoes and headed straight for his whisky, the dog following closely at his heels. He hadn't heard anything from the team – work could wait for just another little while.

Harry heard the familiar clink of glass as he took the lid from the decanter and poured himself a generous helping. He flipped on his stereo. Good, Rodrigo was still on the turntable. He lifted the needle and placed it gently on the record. For a few moments he stood transfixed by the spinning of the disc. Then the chill in the air caught his attention. He lit the gas fireplace and settled himself onto the couch, his dog jumping up and lying next to him.

Harry sat and stared into his whisky. He took a sip and held the glass up to the light, as if making a toast. Crystal. He and Jane, long his ex, had received a set of these as a wedding gift. Strange that he should remember that. When they separated Harry had left everything with her. Months later she'd sent him a couple of boxes. They were mainly filled with clothing, but she'd added the glasses, too. She'd never been a drinker. Or perhaps it was a message. Only two of the glasses had survived his frequent moves and the general turbulence of his life. "Happy Christmas," he whispered as he moved the glass to his lips once more.

He thought about calling his daughter, but felt as though he had nothing to say. Perhaps he'd try tomorrow. He worried that she wouldn't really want to hear from him, that she only spoke to him out of pity. He couldn't blame her. He'd been a terrible father, virtually abandoning her when she was just a child. He'd often told himself that he'd left Jane and the children out of concern for their safety. Admittedly a career in espionage carried significant risks. But that was only part of it.

Harry cringed whenever he thought of the affairs. For someone so skilled in deception, he hadn't even bothered to try and hide them from his wife. It was as though he'd wanted her to find out. He still didn't understand why he'd done it. He just knew that the consequences had been severe. His daughter now spoke to him only occasionally. He hadn't had direct contact with his son, Graham, in years. What he'd heard of Graham hadn't been good – petty criminal activity driven by drug addiction. Self-destructive, just like his father.

Harry sighed. He hated thinking of the past, so filled with regret, so unchangeable. That was one of the good things about this job, he thought – its unrelenting focus on the present as it shifted him from one crisis to the next. He usually didn't have time to think of anything else. He glanced at his phone – still nothing from the Grid. He easily convinced himself to have another whisky. He got up from the couch, rubbed his stiff back, and walked over to the decanter. He grabbed it and sat down once more, pouring himself a healthy dose. He downed it quickly and stared blankly into the fire. He picked up a book from the table and looked at the cover – Raymond Chandler. He tried to read, but the drink, combined with the exhaustion of the past few days, made his eyes feel heavy. He could hear the dog breathing quietly next to him, and the lulling sound of guitar and strings in the background. He let himself drift into the welcome numbness of sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Harry was startled awake by a dull, thudding sound. He blinked his eyes and checked his watch. Shit, he must have fallen asleep. He grabbed his phone – no calls. At least he hadn't been missed on the Grid. He stood and stretched his stiff limbs. The fireplace had timed out, leaving the room cool. He shivered involuntarily. Thump. Thump. Someone was at the door – someone with a heavy hand. Harry shoved on some slippers and scuffed his way to the entrance. He squinted through the peephole. A familiar figure stood outside, but Harry couldn't make out the face. Senses dulled by whisky and sleep, Harry pulled open the door without thinking. He was shocked to see who stood before him: Clive McTaggart.

McTaggart wore a long overcoat that hung loosely from his gaunt frame. An old-fashioned brimmed hat shadowed his grey, lined face. Harry had worked with McTaggart on a number of occasions many years ago – generally Cold War ops in various European cities. They hadn't been close enough to call themselves friends – no one really was in this business – but Harry respected McTaggart as a mentor. McTaggart was one of the few high-level field agents who had managed to survive to retirement. The catch was, he was also as dead as a doornail.

Following his retirement, McTaggart had decided to write a book detailing his experiences in the British security services. This was perhaps not the wisest move he'd ever made. His former employer got wind of the memoir and arranged to have McTaggart killed, masking his death as a suicide. Harry and his team had uncovered the truth. Harry knew McTaggart was long dead, destroyed by the very organization to which he had dedicated his life's work. So how could McTaggart be here, on his doorstep, tonight of all nights? Harry swayed a little in his confusion and leaned his hand against the wall for support. He heard McTaggart's controlled and resonant voice.

"Harry, are you going to invite me in, or did the memoir turn even you against me?"

"Yes, yes, of course, come in Clive."

Harry's brow was furrowed. He led McTaggart into the sitting room, offering him a whisky. McTaggart declined. Harry reached to pour himself a drink, but then, considering the presence of his apparently undead visitor, thought the better of it. He turned to face him.

"Clive, how … how can you be here? My team investigated the circumstances of your death. I went to your funeral, helped arrange your affairs." Harry trailed off, lost for words. Harry had never believed in the supernatural. He was too suspicious, too doubting. He only believed in the real and concrete, and sometimes not even that. There had to be a rational explanation for the fact that he was currently having a conversation with a man who had died several years ago. He just couldn't fathom what it was.

McTaggart broke the silence. "Thank you for discovering the truth, Harry, about what happened. Not that it matters much to me in my current circumstances. I'm here to repay you, in a way. I've got a few words of advice for you."

Harry stared into McTaggart's shadowed face, waiting.

When McTaggart next spoke, his voice was harsh. "Get out, Harry. And don't stupidly think that you can talk when you do. Don't make the same mistake that I did. Just get out and forget about it – all of it. I couldn't forget, because the service was all I ever had – no friends, no family. I wrote the memoir so I'd have something to leave behind. But you've got more than that, Harry. You've still got family, your children, don't you?"

Harry nodded slowly, "Yes … but I'm not exactly on the best of terms with them. Look, Clive, I gave up being a real father to them long ago. They're adults now. It's too late to go back and fix it. And my son … I don't even know where he is. I wouldn't even know how to begin. Not that it's any of your business," Harry added grimly.

"It's only too late, Harry, when you're like me – dead, with no children, nothing to look forward to, and only bad memories to look back on. The service turned on me, Harry. After decades of giving it everything I had. When you leave, someone will take your place, and the machine will keep grinding away. Get out now while you still can. You still have something left, Harry, something outside this. Take it while you can. Don't let the service destroy you like it destroyed me."

Confused, Harry rubbed his face with his hands. "Clive, I need neither your advice nor your help. I don't know what this is or why you are here, but I am fully aware of what the service is. I know that I'll likely die in this office, or because of it. I accepted that a long time ago. I can't leave, Clive. I've nowhere to go. And they wouldn't let me. There are too many skeletons in this old closet."

"I died alone, Harry – alone and terrified. You needn't die like that. Remember, there's always a way out. You just have to find it."

A sudden, irrational rage swept over Harry. He'd always hated being told what to do. He raised his voice. "Leave. Now. I don't know who or what you are, but just get the hell out of my house." He squared his shoulders and turned his back to McTaggart.

"I won't be the last friend you'll see here tonight, Harry."

Harry spun round to ask his visitor what he'd meant, but McTaggart had vanished. Harry heard the front door creak open and then click quietly shut. He moved to the window and scanned the street outside, but it was strangely deserted. Christ, it was like one of those nightmares he'd had as a child. He remembered an old antidote he'd used for bad dreams. He sat down and squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to wake. "It's just a dream, just a dream." He repeated it over and over again. He forced his eyes open. He once more found himself sitting on the couch, dog napping next to him, fire burning, his hand holding the empty glass, the book lying closed in his lap. He breathed a sigh of relief. The music had stopped, but the room was filled with warmth and light.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Harry's sense of relief was soon broken. The brightness of the room seemed to grow in intensity, so much so that it hurt his eyes. He heard a soft, female voice whisper, "Hello, Harry". Shit, he was still dreaming. Had he been drugged? Squinting, he peered into the blinding light, but couldn't make out a form. His hair stood on end as he suddenly felt a cool, thin hand slip into his own. He felt himself being dragged from the couch, pulled forward, then outside. He was unable to resist. It was as though his mind and limbs were two separate entities. He was watching himself being pulled rapidly up, over, through the streets of London, he knew not how. Yet he also felt the crisp air rush past him, stinging his face, as the thin hand towed him along.

The pace slowed. Harry couldn't work out how long they'd been gliding through the night. It could have been seconds, or hours. The hand began to loosen its magnetic grip. Harry felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, almost like being in a lift. His feet brushed the ground, and he stumbled slightly in his effort to stay upright. The blinding light had dissipated, so he chanced a look at the figure to his right. Instantly recognizing her, he inhaled sharply and managed to utter only a single word: "Jo".

She gave him one of her gentle smiles. She was beautiful, radiant, dressed in what appeared to be a flowing, white gown. Her hair was longer than when he'd last seen her. She looked once more like the young, feminine woman she'd been when she first started working on the Grid. Harry looked away, suddenly reminded of the horrible way in which she'd died. Another innocent he'd lost. He gritted his teeth as a lump formed in his throat and tears welled in his eyes.

"What's wrong, Harry?" she asked in a quiet voice. "Don't you want to see this place?"

"Where am I?" he asked, voice raspy in the cold air. He looked about, but saw little. His surroundings appeared to be shrouded in black. Suddenly the light began to grow, seeping about him until it was as bright as it had been in his sitting room. He shut his eyes against it. He could hear the sound of children's voices, distant at first, then becoming louder, more raucous. He heard Jo say, "Look, Harry". He opened his eyes once more, and was amazed by what he saw.

He was standing in a field near his childhood home. It was a crisp winter's day. The sun sparkled on the light snow that had fallen and dusted everything in sight. He could see a group of small boys playing a few yards away. They were scooping the snow with their hands and throwing it into the air, laughing as it flaked down upon them. One of the boys shouted "Flabby, look at this!" and attempted to do a cartwheel in the snow. Harry looked incredulously from one ruddy little face to another. "My God, Jo, how can this be?" She stayed silent, but turned her head to smile at him serenely. She made him feel calm, accepting. He wasn't afraid anymore.

Harry's face lightened as the memories flooded in. He started speaking excitedly, explaining the scene to Jo. "There's my brother and his friend, George. And that little fellow is my cousin, Alan. He was always the smallest of the lot. And that fellow there is Flabby Fuller. Not the most PC name nowadays, I suppose, but we didn't call him that to make fun. I've never met a bigger daredevil in my life. He was two years older than me, but it might have been twenty. And there I am – the failed cart-wheeler." He pointed to a small boy who had blond hair that peeked around a grey woolen hat. The boy was laughing, wiping a runny nose with the back of his hand, and looking utterly content. Harry grew silent, lost in the nostalgic moment. Yes, he thought, I was innocent once, a long time ago – and happy. He realized that he had forgotten what happiness felt like. He looked towards his quiet companion. "Thank you, Jo, for bringing me here. I still don't really understand all this", he said, sweeping his arm in front of him, "but … thank you".

"We're not done yet, Harry."

Harry looked back at the boys, but the light was rapidly failing. He felt Jo's thin hand reach towards him. He willingly grasped it this time. The world began to spin, jumbling the scene before him until it melted into a screen of white. Harry once again found himself moving, uncontrollably, towards an unknown destination.

. . .

Seconds, minutes, hours – again, Harry was unable to say how much time had passed since they'd left his boyhood friends. At some point Jo decided to alight once more, and Harry felt his feet hit solid ground. There was no stunningly bright light this time – just a darkness that slowly dispersed until Harry found himself staring at a familiar house in the early twilight of a December evening.

"Would you like to go in, Harry?"

Unable to speak, he simply nodded. Jo led the way. Harry couldn't remember opening a door or walking through a passageway. Yet somehow he found himself standing in a small sitting room that was decorated for Christmas. There was a tiny, tinsel-covered tree glowing in the corner. Two little children played on the rug before the unlit fireplace. Two children he had known quite well, many years ago, for their names were Catherine and Graham. Not for the first time that night, Harry was overwhelmed with emotion.

The children were sweet and beautiful. Catherine looked to be about five years old, Graham two. Both were wearing pajamas; it was almost bed-time. Catherine was smiling shyly as she rearranged the figures in a crèche. "I think the cow should go there, don't you, Graham?" Graham clutched a little train engine. He hummed and grinned at the world as he alternated between driving and chewing on the toy in his hand. Harry had a vague memory of having bought the engine. Yes, that's right, he'd found it in a little shop that sold hand-made wooden toys, in some European city he'd been passing through – Vienna, perhaps?

Harry jumped as Jane suddenly strode into the room. He heard Jo whisper, "Don't worry, she can't see you." Jane was smiling, lovely, young. She held two red stocking hats in her hand. "Now, sweethearts, let's put on our special Christmas hats and Mummy will take a picture." Catherine obediently put on her hat, but Jane struggled to fit the other on Graham. He pulled it off immediately and threw it, a shout of "No hat!" echoing around the room. Harry couldn't help but laugh. He remembered the photograph – in it, Catherine looked cute and proper, while Graham sported a tousled mess of blond curls that hadn't yet seen scissors. He'd kept the photo for several years, until he'd lost it in one of his many moves.

He heard the camera shutter click several times as Jane photographed the children. He also heard a noise from elsewhere in the house – a door opening, then closing. Jane and the children stopped and glanced towards the entrance to the room. The children's faces bore expectant smiles, Jane's a worried look. Jane suddenly seemed tired, sad; her shoulders drooped. She placed the camera on a nearby table and absent-mindedly straightened her clothing. Harry froze as he watched his younger self breeze in. "Daddy, you're back!" Catherine ran towards the younger Harry and hugged him round the waist. Graham climbed into his arms. The younger Harry laughed and affectionately rubbed his children's hair, then looked at Jane, who stood there in silence. "Harry" was the only thing she said. She looked hurt and relieved, angry and resigned, all rolled into one. The younger Harry said nothing. And that, Harry realised, had always been the problem. He was sorely tempted to walk over and give himself a thrashing – to try and shake this younger, idiotic version of himself to his senses. But he knew there was no point – he wasn't really there, he was looking at something long finished. He exhaled and clenched his fists in frustration. "Let's leave, Jo."

Catherine skipped away and grabbed a toy from the corner of the room. "Look at this, Daddy." She picked up a top and set it spinning on the floor. Harry had never seen a top spin so fast for so long. He watched as it travelled hypnotically throughout the room. He couldn't see Jo, or Jane, or the children anymore, just the top. He stared at it as it kept spinning and spinning and spinning, until the room began to spin with it, and Harry was lost in the bright light once more.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Harry was jolted awake by what sounded like a derisive snort. He had a raging headache and a crick in his neck. His throat was dry and sore. If this were still a dream, it wasn't going to be a good one. He rubbed his temples as he took in his surroundings. He was relieved to find himself in his house once again, sitting on his couch. The room was cool and dimly lit. His dog appeared to have scampered off. He reached blindly for his phone, but couldn't find it. The whisky, on the other hand, still sat on the table in front of him. Just as he leaned forward to refill his glass, he heard her voice. "God, Harry, you really are pathetic." He'd recognize that bored, patronising tone anywhere.

He looked up. Ros was leaning against the doorframe. She made it look like she was supporting it, not the other way around. She wore tight blue jeans and a black leather jacket that she'd zipped up to her neck. She was perched on the highest stiletto heels he'd ever seen. Her arms were crossed firmly in front of her; she looked as though she were ready to give him a lecture. Which, knowing Ros, was highly likely. There were very few people Harry feared in this world, but he had to admit that, on occasion, Ros had been one of them.

"Still stuck on the sauce, Harry?"

Christ, still dreaming and speaking to dead officers, too. Harry cleared his throat and swallowed painfully; might as well play along. He managed to croak, "Ros, what are you doing here?"

"Cutbacks, you know. The jolly green giant wasn't available. Jo's gone off to fix her mascara. So," she sighed, "I'm afraid you'll have to make do with me. I'm not sure what you were expecting, Harry, but the angel robes were really, really itchy, and tinsel and sugar plums aren't exactly my style." Harry still felt stupefied by sleep, lost for words. "Ah, yes," he said, a small smile crossing his face. He realised how much he'd missed Ros. She'd been such a presence on the Grid – there really was no one quite like her.

Harry eased his aching body from the couch. "Well, shall we get on with it then?" he asked in a hoarse voice. Ros had always liked to cut to the chase. Harry continued, "Where are you taking me tonight? Shall we fly again? Back to see my old schoolmates, perhaps? Or to revisit an old op?"

Ros looked at him as though he had two heads. No, make that ten. It was the kind of look someone would give to a complete madman. It made Harry wonder if perhaps he was one. "Christ, Harry, how much have you had to drink? I do have many talents but, sadly, flying is no longer one of them. And I'm afraid that my time machine is in the shop for repairs – nasty habit of breaking down in the 16th century. So we'll just have to do this the old fashioned way. You know, drive." She drawled the last word, as if speaking to a child, or a complete idiot, and turned an invisible wheel with her hands. "Where are your keys, Harry?"

Harry felt his pockets. Empty. "I think they're with my coat, in the kitchen." He motioned vaguely towards the back of the house, and then stumbled past Ros and down the hallway. He found his coat and shoes where he'd left them earlier that evening. Good, he'd tucked the keys in his pocket. Ros walked into the kitchen and stood directly before him. He stared at her for a moment. Something about her seemed very real, tangible; more real than the other visitors he'd had that night. Yet surely he must still be dreaming. Although they'd never recovered her body, he knew that Ros had died in a violent explosion. Another one lost too soon. His thoughts drifted to the past, until the sound of Ros's voice brought him sharply back to the present.

"God, Harry, you absolutely stink. You're not fit to drive. Here, give me the keys." She held out an open palm. He handed over the keys with some reluctance. He wondered briefly which was the safer option – a ghost driver or a slightly drunken one.

"Where are we going, Ros?"

"To the Grid, Harry – where else?"

He hurried to keep up as Ros strode purposefully to the front door. He paused to set the security alarm, and then followed her to his Range Rover. They drove to the Grid in relative silence, only a few murmurs about nothing in particular passing between them.

The streets were peacefully deserted. Harry relished the quiet of late nights. It was the time when he caught up with his life and his work. Sleep had always been a stranger to him, but never more so than during these past few weeks. Yet he felt his eyelids droop as he stared out the passenger window, watching the buildings and lights flit past as Ros drove through the darkness. When his eyes opened again, he found that the Range Rover had entered the car park for Thames House.

Everything around him seemed strangely real. Ros stopped the vehicle in Harry's usual spot and they climbed out. Harry followed his customary route through the building, Ros slightly behind him. He walked past a security guard and was just about to greet him when he realized the guard couldn't see them. So, it was still a dream. Well, that saved him the trouble of figuring out how to smuggle Ros in. They continued to wind their way through the building until they stepped through the familiar whooshing of the pods and onto the Grid.

The scene before them was relatively quiet. A couple of junior analysts sat in a corner, whispering and pointing at something on a computer screen. Secret defence plans or the latest entertainment gossip? Harry couldn't tell for sure, but thought the latter more likely. Calum was at his desk, leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes closed. "Hmm," Harry said, pointing at the snoozing figure, "we'll have to do something about that. Then again, at least when he's asleep we're spared his ridiculous commentary." Ros lifted an eyebrow and smiled slightly. "Not getting on well with your staff, Harry?" Harry looked at her and grunted in response. He turned his attention elsewhere.

Dmitri and Erin were engaged in quiet conversation at Dmitri's desk. Harry moved closer so that he could hear them. He felt guilty about eavesdropping, but not enough to stop. After all, he'd spent much of his life surreptitiously listening to other people's conversations. Besides, his officers might be talking about important work matters, like the renegade group they'd been watching. Although, he had to admit, that's not what it looked like.

Ros was the first to speak. "Nauseating, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Love, Harry. Can't you tell that Big Hair and Prince Charming are completely smitten?"

Harry smiled at Ros. "Big Hair's name is Erin. And Dmitri's her counterpart. She's gutsy like you, Ros. No replacement for you, of course, but she's good." Harry returned his focus to the couple in front of him. Erin was talking about her daughter. "I just called Rosie. She's so excited about Father Christmas, I don't know how she'll sleep. I wish I could be there with her. I was hoping to curl up with her tonight, maybe read a Christmas story…." Erin paused and wiped her eyes. "Sorry, D. It's just so hard not to be there for her. It doesn't look like we'll be going home anytime soon, either," she sighed.

Dmitri placed his hand over Erin's. "I think you could use some cheering up." He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small package wrapped in red paper. "Happy Christmas", he said in an almost-whisper. "I wanted to give this to you someplace nicer, but, well, you know how it is…." Erin didn't say anything in response, just wrapped her arms around Dmitri and kissed him once, softly. When she pulled back there were still tears in her eyes. Dmitri grinned. "Go ahead, open it." Erin took the gift and gingerly removed the paper. The box inside contained a delicate gold bracelet. "Would you?" she asked Dmitri, passing it to him. She held out her wrist and he gently wrapped the bracelet around it. He kissed her hand. He continued to hold it as he looked up at her and said, "I just wanted to thank you for the past couple of months." Erin smiled through her tears. "No, D, I should be thanking you." They gazed at each other for a few moments.

Calum's blissful slumber had apparently ended. Harry heard him shout across the room, "That's enough, lovebirds – you do realise you have an audience, don't you?" Dmitri and Erin turned towards Calum and laughed. It was the first time Harry had seen them joking in weeks. Their expressions grew serious once more as Dmitri spoke, "I wonder how Harry is. I'm surprised he's not back by now."

Erin sighed. "Well, barring some major national emergency, I'm not calling him. Let him rest. He needs it. I don't know how he keeps going, after everything with, you know …."

"I keep replaying that day in my head, wondering if there was something I could have done, something that could have changed what happened…." Dmitri's voice drifted away with his thoughts.

Harry turned quickly and started to march towards the pods. He didn't want to hear them speak of Ruth. He hadn't spoken of her since the day she died. He couldn't. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Ros's voice broke into his thoughts. He paused. It was one of those rare moments when she didn't sound sarcastic, just concerned. "Harry, you have to face this sooner or later. Ruth's loss wasn't just your own. They're hurting, too. You've been so wrapped up in yourself that you can't see that."

"I just can't talk about it, Ros. Not with anyone. I'm sorry they're hurting, but there's nothing I can do."

"You can start by not pushing them so hard – by not punishing them like you're punishing yourself."

Harry stood in silence, trying desperately to turn his thoughts from his pain. He glanced back at Erin. Perhaps he'd been wrong about her. He didn't want her pity, but it did seem real, as did her feelings for Dmitri. Perhaps he envied what she and Dmitri shared – they seemed so comfortable with each other, even though they'd only been together a short time. He and Ruth had never been able to achieve that, despite the years they'd known each other.

"I need to leave, Ros. Can I just go home, back to my single malt?"

Ros turned to look at him as she drew his keys from her pocket. "We'll go, Harry, but not home. Not yet. We have another stop to make first." Harry began to ask where they were headed, but Ros had disappeared through the pods. Damn those long legs. He hurried after her as she made her way back to the Range Rover, refusing to stop and answer his questions.

. . .

Ros was silent as she started the vehicle and drove into the night once more. Harry stared out the passenger window, not noticing much of anything. A blanket of sleep soon settled over him. He must have slept for quite some time, for when he next opened his eyes he found that they had left London. Physically, he felt much better. He watched for a road sign, and soon recognized their location. Ah, yes, on the M23, on the way to Brighton.

"Are you taking me to Brighton to see my daughter?"

"Well, Harry, as much as I like fun parks, I wasn't planning on taking you to the dodgems on the Pier."

"How do you know where she lives, Ros?"

Ros stared ahead as she spoke. "Well, Harry, my time machine may be broken, but my crystal ball still works. And be warned, if you keep on with these questions, I'm going to get annoyed." Harry had lived long enough to know that an annoyed Ros was not a good thing. He decided to stay quiet and simply watch as she drove along.

. . .

It was quite late when they pulled up outside the building that housed Catherine's flat. Harry worried that Catherine would be sleeping. It took little effort for Ros to prise the locks, and they soon found themselves standing in his daughter's home. Harry frowned. Catherine definitely needed better security.

He'd never been inside Catherine's flat. She'd only moved here recently. She was a traveller like him, wandering the globe in search of interesting stories for those political documentaries she made. Harry hoped that she'd soon develop some roots. He wouldn't wish his transient existence on anyone, especially not his daughter.

He glanced about. The flat had a narrow passageway running its length. The walls featured a number of architectural photographs, presumably taken by Catherine. A flickering of light, likely cast by a television, emanated from one end of the passageway. Harry turned and walked towards it. Ros followed, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. They entered a large, dimly lit room that was graced on its furthest side by floor length, shuttered windows. There was a tiny kitchen to the right. The room was fitted with minimalist furniture that looked as though it could be easily packed and moved again. Candles joined the television in casting an unsteady glow over two figures sitting on a couch. Catherine was one of them; it was difficult to recognize the male who sat next to her, his back to Harry. They were watching an old black and white Christmas film. Harry smiled fondly upon seeing his daughter; he was relieved to find her awake. Yet he suddenly had misgivings. Secretly watching Erin and Dmitri on the Grid was one thing; watching his daughter with a male companion in her home was quite another. "Ros, I really don't feel comfortable here. We should go and leave her be."

He looked at Ros. She gave him one of her signature eye rolls. "I've never known you to be a coward, Harry. There's a reason we're here."

"Then could you please explain what it is?" he asked, impatience evident in his voice.

"Take a closer look at Catherine's friend."

Harry moved further into the room. He stopped as he recognized his son's face.

Harry had lost track of how many years had passed since he'd last seen Graham in person. Stills taken from CCTV just didn't count. Graham's curly hair was now darker and shorter than it had been when he was a child. He was tall and lanky – his legs stretched out awkwardly in front of him, as though the couch sat slightly too close to the floor. He cradled an empty mug in one hand as he stared at the screen, reflections of the film shining on his eyeglasses. Harry suddenly felt saddened – by the fleeting passage of time, by the loss of what could have been.

Harry glanced back at the television. The film was just ending. Neither Graham nor Catherine seemed aware of Harry's presence. Graham laid the mug on a nearby table and stretched his arms over his head. He yawned, and then spoke. "Cath, what time did you say Mum would be here tomorrow? I think I'll have a lie-in."

"She said she'd be here about one. What about Matt?"

"He's stopping at his parents first, so not 'til two or three."

They fell silent for a moment. Catherine began to speak in a cautious tone. "Graham, I know you don't like to talk about him, but …"

Graham suddenly became enraged. "Christ, Cath, is this about Dad again? No, you're right – I don't like to talk about him. I wonder why – could it have something to do with the fact that he walked out on us when we were kids? I can't understand why you still care. You've never given up on your fantasy that we can be one big, happy family, have you?"

The hurt in Catherine's face angered Harry. Graham had every right to despise him, but he had no right speak to Catherine that way. Nonetheless, she didn't relent.

"Graham, I'm worried about him. I know things haven't been the best between us, but we've been in touch a lot more these past few years. Until now, that is. I haven't spoken to him in – I don't know – weeks, maybe months. I've called and left messages, but he hasn't responded. I'm afraid something is terribly wrong."

Graham didn't look too concerned. He almost spit out his next words. "I wouldn't waste too much of your time worrying about him, Cath. I'm sure he didn't spend much time thinking about us when he was traipsing around Europe playing spy games and shagging women."

"You're too hard on him, Graham. He's far from the perfect father, I know, but he's the only one we've got. Sometimes you need to learn how to forgive…"

"Forgive? Forgive the heartless bastard who walked out on us? Who left Mum to take care of us all on her own? Who never bothered with birthdays, holidays, school plays? Besides, do you seriously think he wants anything to do with me? I'm the miscreant who's shamed him."

"Graham, I'm sure he'd never be ashamed of you."

"No? Well I'm sure he would be if he knew the truth. What man like that, Mr. Military, Mr. Dedicate his Life to Queen and Country, wants to find out that his son, the recovering junkie, is gay? He'd be thrilled. Over the moon. It's best to leave things as they are. I'm certainly not telling him. He can pretend that I'm dead, like he does now. I'm certain he'd prefer that to the truth." Graham folded his arms and stared at the floor, jaw clenched in anger.

Harry was shocked, but not because of Graham's declaration that he was gay. No, the real pain lay in hearing how his son truly viewed him, as so heartless and close-minded that he couldn't accept him as he was. He spoke to Ros in a shaking voice, "I shouldn't have let you bring me here, Ros. I know I deserve it, but I don't want to hear how much he hates me. I want to go home – now," he growled. Harry took a panicked breath. "I've completely screwed up, Ros. I've only ever wanted them to be safe and happy. And what have I done…" He shut his eyes in despair and covered his face with his hands.

Ros spoke quietly into Harry's ear. "Children always need their parents, Harry. Look at me and my scoundrel of a father. I was a grown woman who shed tears for him when he went to prison, even though I knew he deserved every minute of that sentence. You need to reach out to them, Harry. It's not too late. You can fix this."

Harry shook his head at her familiar words. He heard Catherine sigh. He looked and saw that there were tears on her face. He wanted desperately to walk over and wrap his arms around her. Instead, he could only stand and watch as she wiped the tears away. That's what he'd always been, he realised, just a distant spectator in his children's lives.

Catherine sniffed and spoke again. "Graham, don't be so angry. It's Christmas. We're here in my new flat. Why don't we talk about something else? I've … I've got some news. I haven't told anyone yet. I wanted to wait 'til Mum arrived, but perhaps I'll tell you now." She took a deep breath. "I'm pregnant."

Graham's mood changed immediately. He jumped up from the couch, a huge grin replacing the anger in his face. Words tumbled from his mouth. "God, Cath, that's fantastic. I mean, are you happy? When's it due? Why didn't you tell me earlier? I wouldn't have kept you up so late. Who's the father? Oh God, I'm so sorry for upsetting you. Let me get you some tea. Put your feet up."

Catherine laughed quietly. "Slow down, Graham. I'm not an invalid – not yet, anyway," she said, brushing away his gesture of help. Her face grew serious. "I'm happy, but scared, too. The father, well, he isn't in the picture. I must pick them like Mum does," she sighed. "So, it looks as though I'm going to be on my own with this."

Graham sat down and hugged her. "Cath, you've always got me and Mum. I'd do anything to help you – God knows you've done enough for me."

Harry heard Ros speak softly. "Sounds like you're going to be a grandfather, Harry. Congratulations." Like Graham, Harry quickly forgot his anger. A look of stunned joy spread over his face. He glanced towards Ros and saw that she was smiling at him; a tender, genuine smile. It was a rarity for her, but all the more beautiful because of that. Ros seemed different tonight; she still had her endless determination and biting wit, but the harshness was gone. He dearly wished she could have had a happier life in this world. He smiled back at her, a genuine smile as well, and also a rarity. "Thank you, Ros. You're so right. I do need to fix this. I will," he said with conviction, nodding towards his children. He paused for a moment and then mumbled, as a sinister-sounding afterthought, "I'm also going to find out who the father is…." He turned to listen to Catherine and Graham again, but their conversation had become distant, muffled. The room seemed to darken, the shadows lengthen. Harry felt Ros grab his arm and lead him away.

. . .

Harry couldn't remember leaving Catherine's flat. Nor could he remember the drive back to London. Yet somehow he found himself once more outside his home, sitting in the Range Rover, Ros occupying the driver's seat. She looked at him and smiled, then handed him his keys. She opened the door and got out, turning to him to say in her most nonchalant voice, "Goodbye, Harry. Good luck with it." She shut the door and began to walk away. Harry got out and watched for a moment, then called, "Ros! You can come in. Why don't you stop for a bit?" He gestured weakly towards his house, but knew she wasn't listening. She didn't look back.

Harry watched as she reached the end of the street, rounded the corner, and vanished into the night. He was saddened by the fact that Ros had gone, even if she had been just a figment of his imagination. He sighed. Alone again, he thought. Disappointment flooded in as he suddenly became aware that he was dreaming; that it was all just a dream. Well, everything except Graham's hatred of him; he was certain that was real enough. He turned and walked dejectedly to the front door, unlocked it and disabled the alarm. He almost crawled towards the couch, too tired to climb the steps to his bedroom. He lay down. He was aching and ill again. He closed his eyes and felt his dog jump up and settle next to him. A final thought crossed his mind – he must call Catherine tomorrow. Then, silence.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

This time there was no sound, no knock at the door, no familiar face. Not yet. It began as a shining pool, a smoky mirror, perhaps the surface of the Thames on that dark December night. Harry stared and stared into it, until he saw a face reflected from its cold and gleaming depths. It was his face – lined, care-worn, alone. Just his.

Harry didn't like to look upon himself. He knew what hid behind that face – all the secrets and lies, the unspeakable deeds he'd done. Yet he found it impossible to close his eyes, to look away. So he continued to stare, until the reflection began to shift once more, like a sinister ripple on the water. He felt a coolness surround him. He was no longer alone, but felt no comfort this time. The reflection of another face began to emerge. A hooded, indistinct face; behind him, just beyond. Fear suddenly gripped him, tightening his throat, causing his heart to race. He wondered if this were the end. He wanted to shut his eyes, to run, to scream, but he was trapped, forced to look, forced to face himself and this unearthly figure.

In a shaking voice he began to plead, "What do you want? Speak. Please." His words were met with silence. The reflection distorted once more, swirling and blurring before him. Vague shapes began to emerge – lines, letters, words, no – names. He now knew where he stood. He was staring at the hideous memorial wall at Thames House, its black, unforgiving surface carved with the names of dead officers. Harry loathed this place. The hooded figure lifted its arm and traced the list of names with a veiled finger. Harry's eyes were drawn uncontrollably to each one. He could see and feel in vivid detail the way each officer had died: torture, gunshot, hanging, beating, bomb blast, stabbing. All blood and gore and death – successive images of pure violence and evil and pain that made him sick to his stomach. He screamed in agony, "Stop! Stop…." Suddenly, whatever had held him in its rigid grasp let go. Harry dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands. He cried, "It's my fault, all my fault…."

He knelt on the cold floor until his knees ached. The gruesome images had left, the eerie silence had returned. He cautiously opened his eyes. The memorial wall still stood before him, the image of the hooded figure reflected from its surface. The cloaked arm now pointed to the final name on the list. It read "H. Pearce". Some of the fear left him. Harry barked a resentful laugh and spoke in a rough voice, "Do you really think I care that my name is there? I'd substitute my name for any one of my officers on that list. It always should have been me. None of my officers would be dead if it weren't for my orders, my mistakes." He roughly rubbed the tears from his face, and then continued, "So kill me – let me die. I've nothing left, anyway."

"You're wrong, Harry."

No, it couldn't be. Not that voice. Just when he thought the agony couldn't get any worse. He raised his eyes. The face of the shrouded figure was no longer hooded and indistinct. In its place he saw the face of his beautiful Ruth. He stood and reached out to touch her, but felt only the cool hardness of marble against his fingers. Yes, he thought bitterly, that only made sense. Even in life she'd always been just out of his reach.

He dropped his arm. Her image smiled gently at him. He started to speak, but she shushed him, "No words, please, Harry. Words have never worked for us. I brought you here to show you that, in the end, you're just one of us. It's not your war. You're not the reason our names are here. We all make choices in life, Harry. These people chose this job. They knew what might happen. I knew what might happen. But you, Harry, you still have a choice. You just need to find the will to make it."

He wanted to tell her that he couldn't live without her; that he didn't care anymore; that he'd lost his will to live. He wanted to beg her to let him die, to take him to wherever she was. Yet he couldn't speak. He just stood and stared at her image in quiet desperation.

"I'm going to show you something else, Harry."

The blackness of the marble shifted once again. Ruth's face faded, and in its place a domestic scene emerged. Harry thought he could see a mother and child sitting together, reading. He peered closely at the image, tracing it with his fingers. The picture grew clearer and he recognized Catherine, though she looked older – there were faint lines on her face and dark circles under her eyes. She was sitting with a little boy who was perhaps five years old. They were paging through a book – no, it was a photo album. Harry heard the boy ask, in a distant-sounding voice, "Who's that, Mummy?"

Catherine's response sounded hollow, remote. "That's your Grandad – Mummy's Daddy. He died when you were a baby."

"Did that make you cry?"

"Well, yes, it did make me very sad." Catherine gave the little boy a hug. "He was a brave man who had an important job, so I didn't get to see him very often, but I did love him."

"You mean he was something like my Daddy?"

"Well, not … sort of …." Catherine stared into the distance for a moment. Recollecting herself, she smiled slightly and touched the tip of the little boy's nose. "It's too bad you never knew your Grandad. I'm sure he would have had you into all kinds of mischief."

Harry saw the little boy smile at Catherine, but then the image began to dissolve and contort again. Another took its place – a picture of a simple church standing in the English countryside. The weathered gravestones that encircled the church bore indecipherable witness to lives long past. Yet one of the stones stood out from the rest. Harry's eyes were drawn irresistibly to its shining surface. The stone seemed to grow as he looked upon it, drawing closer to him until it filled his field of vision. He found himself staring at another name carved into black granite, a name he recognized all too well – "Graham Pearce". His heart was struck with horror when he saw the year of death – 2014. Harry found his voice and croaked in despair, "No, not Graham. Not so soon. What happened? Why didn't I save him?"

He heard Ruth's voice again. It was warmer and fuller this time. He realised that she was no longer just a reflection. He could feel her standing next to him. Yet he was afraid to look. He still couldn't face her. He shut his eyes and shook his head as he tried to block it all out, but it didn't work. "You couldn't help because you were dead, Harry. This job killed you. You never had the chance to help Catherine raise your grandson, and you never had the chance to set things right with Graham."

Eyes still closed, Harry started to beg. "Tell me that I can have a second chance, that I can change this. Bring me back to my house, please, just give me once more chance to fix this."

"Does that mean you don't want to die?"

"No … I suppose … I don't." His eyes were still shut, his head hung.

"Go to Catherine and Graham, Harry. Share yourself with them like you never could with me. It's not too late. You can change this. You can live to see your grandson, to see Graham happy. But it means that you'll have to stop, Harry. Stop work. Let it go. The Grid will keep going, whether you're there or not. You know it's time. You've done enough. It's time to turn your attention to other things that really matter. It's time for you to save yourself."

He looked up just as her presence began to fade. He started to speak, "Ruth, I love …", but she wasn't there anymore. He felt lost in the blackness that surrounded him, lost and alone. Perhaps it was over. Perhaps he really was dead, and she was still gone. This was the hell he deserved. He crumpled onto the cold floor, sobbing.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Harry felt something cool touch his face. There it was again. He inhaled sharply and forced his eyes open. For a moment he looked about in panic, but then recognised his surroundings. He was lying on the floor of his sitting room. His throat was raw, his head pounding. His dog was trying to get his attention so that he'd let her out. Her nose prodded his face, her paws thumped lightly on his chest. It would have tickled if he hadn't felt so ill.

Harry struggled to his feet, grabbing the couch for support. The grey light of dawn was just starting to seep around the curtains. He stretched his aching body, then headed towards the kitchen and opened the door. He was greeted by a blast of cold morning air. He breathed it down his dry throat, and an icy vitality filled his lungs. He began to feel a bit better. Yes, he realised, he was finally awake. It was over. Relief rushed through him. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so he ran outside with his dog instead. He picked up a ball and threw it for her to fetch, watching in amusement as she raced around the garden. Beads of water dripped onto his face from the naked branches overhead. The scattering of wet snow that had fallen overnight soaked his slippers and made his feet cold. But he didn't care. He felt alive again, for the first time in a long time.

He'd made up his mind. He went to the sitting room to retrieve his phone – still no messages. He felt a twinge of guilt as he realised his team had spent the night on the Grid, awaiting his instructions. He picked up the decanter, placed it on the side table, and firmly put in the lid. No more of this, he thought. He hurried upstairs to get ready for work.

As he shaved, Harry paused for a moment to look in the mirror. A vision of another, darker reflection returned to him. Yes, the dreams. They'd been so vivid, like nothing he'd ever before experienced. He couldn't remember each and every detail, but felt as though perhaps he didn't want to. There had been good things in them, though, that he knew. Ros had been there, and Jo, and Catherine. And Ruth, of course, Ruth was always there, always in the background of everything he did. He shook himself from his thoughts, finished shaving, and quickly went to change into his fresh clothing.

...

Several weary faces turned to look at Harry as he strode through the pods and onto the Grid. "Meeting room – now," he barked, gesturing with his head in the direction of the room. He kept walking. Dmitri and Erin shot a "What now?" look at each other before turning to follow their boss. Calum stretched and yawned, then eased himself out of his chair and lumbered after them, two of the new officers following in his wake.

Harry stood waiting at the end of the table as they entered the room. They looked so tired, he thought, like they were completely spent. He felt as though he were looking at their faces for the first time; as though he hadn't before seen them as the human individuals they were. He began to speak. "I've got an important announcement." He paused. He could tell they were waiting to hear of some new attack or threat. Instead he said, "You've got the next two days off. Go home to your families. I'll red flash you if there's any problem. So, Happy Christmas and get on with it." He gestured with his hands as if brushing them out of the room. It seemed to take them a few moments to register what he'd actually said. He heard a few "Happy Christmas, Harrys" as they began to file out, smiles on their faces. Erin was the last to leave. She looked concerned as she spoke to him. "Harry, I don't mean to pry, but … if you don't have any plans you're welcome to come over for dinner…"

For an instant Harry felt like grumbling, "And why would you think that I have no plans?" But he didn't. Instead he said, in as warm a voice as he could manage, "Thanks, Erin – perhaps another time. I've plenty to keep me occupied today. Now go, enjoy your time with your daughter." Erin gave him a smile and a tiny wave of thanks as she turned and left the room.

Harry looked around the empty meeting space. How many times had he been at this table, giving instructions to his officers, listening to their reports, losing himself in the beautiful tones of Ruth's voice as she explained such complicated things so easily. Everything had made such sense when she was in his life. Everything seemed to have so much more meaning. Now he was like this room, empty yet full of so many echoes from the past. He wondered if the emptiness in his heart would ever leave him. Yet today the edges of the hurt seemed a little less jagged. He found that he could think of her now, think of the good she'd brought into his life, think of her in ways he hadn't been able to since she'd gone.

Reassembling his boss façade, Harry walked out of the room and back to his office. He sat at his desk and absent-mindedly watched his team gather their things and shuffle off the Grid. He _was_ going to be busy today – busy planning his escape. He would treat it like another of his ops; his last and best. He knew it would take time. He just hoped that he had enough left. He glanced towards the place where Ruth's desk used to be. He wondered briefly, perhaps irrationally, if he would ever see her again. Even if it were just in a dream, just to tell her how much he loved her.

He reached for his phone. He was going to do this for her, if not for himself. He dialled Catherine's number. He held his breath for one, two, three rings, and then she answered, "Dad – thank God." Harry exhaled, and smiled a little.

...

The End. Thanks so much for reading and for the kind reviews.


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